


The Rose Garden

by AlexKrenin



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKrenin/pseuds/AlexKrenin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm needs a lesson in self-appreciation, and Julius has every intention to give it. </p><p>A Tumblr Prompt from/for Jexxer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose Garden

 

 

 

 

 

I am a man of imagination. 

  
  


My job, in fact, requires me to come up with fresh policy ideas every week. My obsession with twisting reality as I would a Rubik's cube, in search for new angles, new combinations, has pushed me up to the PM's left side as head counsellor.

And, maybe, in spite of his endless lines of sarcasm aimed at my blue-sky thinking, into Malcolm Tucker's cold, _cold_ heart.

I am a man of imagination that is true. But I am positive anyone with a decent view would see exactly what I see right now , looking at him sitting at his desk, in that massive leather chair, one pensive finger on his mouth, a pen in the other hand, suspended in elegance above a short, yet deadly letter.

  
He is King upon his Throne, he is King and nothing else. Anyone would see that. He's holding his sword above a wretched traitor's head in solemn silence, and he has but one move to make.

  
  


Wield the blade.

  
  


Sign the letter.

  
  


_To kill one man._

  
  


  
  


I know who that man is. His name is Adrian Morris.

From where I stand next to the PM, I saw him emerging from some dark Foreign Affairs cubicle, crawling up to the PM's ears, promising some juicy intel about one head or another in Opposition. Once, and again the next day, and again. Scandals. Whispers. Maybes and perhapses. He even had the PM's reaction speeches ready. No political content, nothing much. Just one-liners and mocking puns.

  
  


A blank and hollow way to win easy points. How the old political dog could resist.

He grabbed those whispers and speeches like a tramp at a wedding buffet.

  
  


He spoke them all. Papers went mad. It lasted for almost ten days. A disgusting, messy freak show sticky with sex and lies, where some of my best policies were drowned in a flow of lame farces and undignified pop culture references aimed at the Opposition head of Morris' choosing.

  
  


The PM 's hunger for this free food earned Morris his rapidly growing favours,  my own outraged irritation...

  
  


  
And of course, Malcolm Tucker's pure, untainted _wrath._

I would be a fool to believe Malcolm doesn't use sex scandals and tax evasion businesses himself. His drawers are filled with every bit of shame, every sinful deed, every gross mistake his merciless spiderweb has caught on paper or tape.

Malcolm Tucker's Library of Secrets.

  
  


His cherished ammunition.

  
  


  
  


  
But those precious secrets are not to be thrown to the public without a reason, without purpose, for a half-witted pun and two miserable jokes. It's wasting bullets in a duel, and Malcolm despises carelessness.

  
There are rules of war, and the King hates to see them ignored.

  
  


  
  


It actually took him less than three days to turn Morris' ways against himself, since a good half of his juicy sex stories were obtained by the meticulous shagging of half a dozen PA's of Opposition. I wasn't even surprised. Impressed, as always, even after all this time, but not surprised.

  
Playing the Dark Secret game with Malcolm Tucker is a very unfortunate initiative, unless you have, like him, walked for twenty years knee-deep into the dirtiest marshes of politics. Morris was obviously young and inexperienced, however hungry as a wolf.

  
He was still no match for the Evil King.

  
  


On the morning of the fourth day, Malcolm had Morris simultaneously pierced with no less than four press scandals. This was Saint Sebastian' s martyrdom, spread in merciless monochrome on every newspaper in UK. The reckless boy drowned into disgrace before he could understand what was happening.

Artfully done, yet terrifying.

  
  


Tucker Studios trademark.

  
  


  
  


Caught red-handed, the PM crawled back into Malcolm's lap, muttering shameful apologies and promises not to utter a single world that didn't come from Malcolm's pen; from now on to forever.

  
  
  


  
  


And there he sits in glorious winter light, my dear lover, the mighty King of Shadows, his pen held in the air as the sword of justice above Morris' resignation letter.

  
  


-"You won't do it." I quietly state.

He superbly plays the man that didn't even notice I was there, and the outrage in his eyes is five-star falsification.

  
  


-"Why the fuck not?" He spits in defiance as I, bearing the smile of angels, lay a mug of Earl Grey next to the letter.

  
  


-"Because you'd never kill a man without purpose. If it doesn't bring you knowledge or power, victory or success. In this case, you have already won. Morris is six feet underground. This would be gratuitous murder, sheer revenge. You're not that man.”

  
  


He barks a carefully measured laugh, expressing with surprising exactitude how stupid he thinks I am.

  
  


-”You know I am, Jules”. He mutters darkly. “I'm even worse. I've signed hundreds of letters like this one. I've stepped into so much blood I can't wash the red off my shoes. ”

 

-”For the job, yes. For Queen and Country. Never for _nothing_.”

 

-”Oh, Julius, please. It's been five fucking years, how can you still be so fucking **blind**?.”

 

-”It's been five years precisely because I know you very well, Malcolm. You won't sign.”

 

 

-”What would you bet on this?”

 

 

 

His last words spread silence accross the office. He's looking right at me, chin up, pen readied, a thousand challenges in his eyes. But it's been five years, indeed, and I would be long dead, if I wasn't stronger than one demanding stare.

 

I give myself one minute to ponder. He is so confident in this. So sure to be damned, rotten beyond redemption by his years of foul lies and low blows. I fear no matter how far he pushed everyone's limits here, there is not a soul in these offices that hates Malcolm Tucker as much as he does himself.

 

A sad habit of his. Despite my efforts, he remains very persistent in those thoughts. To the point of risking a bet, obviously. And he never bets unless winning is – to his mind- a certainty.

 

 

 

Well, unfortunately for him, I am not blind.

 

 

And not incapable of my own plotting.

 

 

 

 

-”If you sign this letter”, I carefully speak, “ then I am definitely wrong, and I shall let you fill every inch of my space with your heavy sarcasm without the smallest of retorts.”

 

 

At that, he grins like the devil he can be, and something wicked makes his eyes look like sunlight on a silver stream.

 

-”For at least a week”, he breathes.

 

 

-”As you wish.” I concede, shrugging.

 

Then, I make a show of staring right into those eyes, with both my hands flat on his desk, and hammering my next words with quiet intensity :

 

-”But if tomorrow night this paper still isn't signed, you will have dinner with me, Malcolm. At the place of my choosing. And you will come back home with me, and comply to each and every one of my whims for the whole night long. Until the very break of dawn and without interruption. Am I being clear? ”

 

His lips part, and I literally see his well-prepared sentence dissolving into shreds, and turn to nothing. He closes his mouth with a short, wet noise and nods, distractedly opening one of his file holders, the first one to come at hand, possibly.

 

Drunk with the victory of forcing Malcolm Tucker to silence, I joyfully step closer and kiss his worried brow. He hisses and turns away, but half as violently as he often does.

 

Oh, it seems I have planted the seed of doubt in the soil of his certainties. Good.

 

 

As I walk out, I sense on my back one or two of his piercing, troubled stares.

 

 

Very good.

 

 

_Let the lesson begin._

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

I don't see much of him for a whole day, and when I do, he is exceptionally sweet to me, lowering eyelids and offering half-smiles. Definitely a sign that I am on the winner's path. If he had signed the paper, he would have barged into my office to smash it on my desk and gloat for a whole minute. Or silently walked in to switch on the TV, only to drink the sight of me watching the PM's reaction speech to Morris' resignation.

 

None of this happened.

 

Only his fingertips toying with my collar for twenty delightful seconds, as he whispers a list of things he'd like me to write into the PM's agenda. As I comply, very surprisingly, after a quick check for my office's door, he kisses my mouth with a warmth and a care I would have deemed impossible at this time of the day.

 

Oh. Am I being deluded?

 

_**Definitely winning.** _

 

 

 

 

 

And so, later on, around friday 6pm, as he closes the door of my office behind him, his face alight with an unreadable mix of emotions, and one single sheet of paper in his hand – _that letter, I am sure_ -, I patiently close my laptop and wait, unimpressed.

 

My composure seems to irritate him to great heights.

 

 

Even from five yards away, I can read his inner battle perfectly. Bloodshed or mercy, charge or surrender. That war must have been raging on in his mind for the last twenty-four hours, and having to fight that softer side of his heart he doesn't even want to see must have been exhausting.

 

He steps close, as restrained anger slowly emerges on his face, and I'd be a fool to speak first.

 

What would be the point? I trust him. I trust who he is.

 

 

A good man with a very, very nasty job.

A kind heart, wrapped in countless layers of stone and iron.

 

 

 

 

Our eyes meet in tensed silence for a whole minute.

 

 

 

Then, he crumples the letter in a tight ball, and throws it in my paper bin with a disgusted hiss of defeat.

 

 

 _Ha_.

 

 

-”Allright”, he sighs, collapsing into the chair in front of me. “Do whatever the fuck you want with me, Julius. Until dawn.”

 

 

The utter reluctance in his voice could have worried me, but I have seen that flash of a smile as he raised his hands above his head in lovely theatrics of surrender, and so I am gently reminded that the trust I have in him actually works both ways.

 

After all, it has been five years.

 

 

 

***

 

 

I do, and always will, plead not guilty on this. It wasn't planned. Good Lord, I was as far from thinking about it as I could be.

By demanding his compliance as my spoils of war, I only meant to be able to drag him into a nice restaurant without his usual, exasperating speeches about how despicable posh people are, how unimpressed he is with my wealth, and how strongly he opposes my buying him anything.

 

Strangely, I have always thought my money would be my best, if not only asset concerning hypothetic partners. Truth be told, I am not the most handsome of men. I am not devoid of charm, but, really, nothing worth a mention. I am perfectly aware of how old-fashioned and boring I might, be, born and raised in a world where time stopped at the Coronation of Queen Victoria.

 

 

The very few men who did not entirely reject my advances clearly confirmed what I thought, seeking my gifts and first-class life above my conversation, skills or even company.

 

Until the day, of course, when came Malcolm Tucker. The insufferable, dreadful, magnificent man required almost three years of insistent pursuing. But once he finally accepted my three hundred and twelfth invitation for dinner, his visceral hatred for my wealth became very clear. The smallest of gifts, even my paying for a cab, sends him into raging storms of protest. If he cannot help but appreciate the fine arts and culture of my Victorian world, he very quickly made sure any thought of buying him anything expensive had me sweating in horror.

 

He accepted a Tom Ford tailor-made suit only last year. And I cannot begin to tell you the shameful heights of begging I had to climb.

 

So, my desire for one night where I could buy him a fancy dinner and maybe a bottle of Chambertin is easy to understand.

 

 

 

That was the only purpose of my request for him to 'obey my whims'.

 

 

 

I never thought it would get me _that far._

 

 

 

To my defence, he played the game quite appealingly. He let me call a cab after work, and as we stopped in front of that small, yet luxurious place my family owns, instead of the furious rant I am used to, I got a sweet smile and a nod.

 

He drank half the bottle of Chambertin, and didn't even argue about the price. He carefully listened to my exhaustive, yet, I am sure, awfully tiresome history of Great Bourgogne. He actually ate a fairly complete meal, and from time to time, a soft smile on his face or a quick, delicate wave of his hand whispered to me that he was, indeed, deliberately being pliant, and that he truly didn't mind.

 

He was very wilfully being a little bit more seductive, eyelids low, gentle stance.

 

When I took his hand as he moved to take the bill, and gently pushed it aside to grab the small paper, he only smiled, and leaned back in his chair with an elegant gesture of defeat.

 

 

I could tell you I felt nothing but amorous pleasure as he let me run a hand along his back on our way out, thanking me for the evening in a soft, playful voice, but I would be lying.

 

The absolute truth about what I felt is, besides, of course, an infinite amount of love and pride is that ravishing, ecstatic vision of him putting a thick collar on himself and handing me the leash.

This, truly, if I look at myself with honesty, is what made my throat go dry and my heart jump, as I opened for him the cab door.

 

 

Before I understood exactly what it was, I decided I wanted more.

 

 

 

_So much more of this._

 

 

 

 

 

And so it begins, slowly, as he undresses for me in my bedroom, watching me pour for him a generous glass of that brandy bottle, so old and so precious he never let me open it for us.

 

 

We drink, and we both cough in surprise at the molten lava this liquor has become over the years. He laughs, then, and that's it, for me, I suppose.

 

I grab his face and kiss him hard.

 

I realize, then, that there is something about his skin. His pale skin, so thin, so soft, amazingly supple for a man of his age. If I hold him hard enough, his skin goes white, then, gradually, darkens in shades of rosy red, just where my fingers have been.

 

 

 

His flushed face, bearing four marks on his cheek, my marks, my fingers, is the most addictive sight I have ever seen.

 

 

 

I want more. _So much more of this._

 

 

 

I literally throw him on my bed, and get rid of my own clothes in swift, firm moves that don't exactly look like me. I shall make up excuses for that later.

I lay on top of him, and hopefully try to mark him everywhere at once. His hand get a grip of my shoulders, urging me on. I capture his hips, squeeze my fingers, release him.

And watch the white roses of his skin turn to red with a hunger I couldn't imagine. I do the same with his thighs, his arms. Each time I clench my hands around him, he sighs, and his agile hips make a move towards mine.

 

He's hard, and needing, but not nearly as crazed as I am.

I have gone mad, frenzied by the colours of his skin.

 

After watching me play my game for a while, I think he understands my hunger, and his eyes narrow. I think I catch a glimpse of a lopsided smile, but my own eyes are already blurred by lust.

 

 

I only pause when he lays a hand on my chest, gives me the most lascivious, burning stare he ever gave, and, licking his lips, he rolls over beneath me.

 

Oh _God_.

 

 

 

I don't think I'd believe it, this is so unlike him, but his eyes on me, above his shoulder, leave no doubt. They're bright and delicate as those old porcelains, shining in glory, yet heavy with stories. He is offering himself to my wicked game, and the sight alone nearly finishes me.

 

 

I gently graze his thin, firm buttocks with a careful hand, marvelling for a moment at the sheer perfection of it. I try and take my time, I swear I do, but the hunger soon wins over, and I squeeze one of them, hard.

 

He moans. Oh, God, how he moans.

 

 

I let go, watch the roses grow. I squeeze again. And again. This madness is eating my mind away. After a while, as I cover his skin with red marks, some of them painted angry crimson, his eyes close, his lips part, and his hips start to move against the bed, searching for friction. His soft moans increase until they almost break into a cry.

 

 

 _Oh, none of that, Malcolm_. You will wait until I'm done.

 

I slap his bottom, much harder than I thought I could.

 

 

 

 

Then, he truly cries out.

 

 

 

Among the roses a square patch of violent red emerges. The sight drives me ecstatic, and my cock against his left thigh is throbbing in need. He feels it, rubbing himself on me once or twice, enough to make my cries join his.

 

Demented, I slap him again, twice, the sharp cracking sounds of it being the end of me. He hisses and lays still.

 

The red marks are melted now, in one large, darkening carmine flower. I slap once more, and I hear a moan I don't like. I search his face, pressed into the pillow, and through a haze of pleasure, I can read the first stains of real pain.

 

Allright. _Enough._

 

 

I go back to grazing his tortured skin, then, laying back on him, kissing his shoulders with all the devotion I can express.

I do that as long as it takes to see the cries I like return. I wait for two, three of them in a row, I wait until the worrying lines of pain fade away from his brow, and I rummage into the nightstand drawer for that small tube I always keep there.

 

My grazing hand on his bottom, once soaked in lube, turns to probing.

 

 

 

He hisses my name in approval, his legs parting slightly for me.

 

He sounds very satisfied with y fingers, and I intend to finish him that way. I somehow fear I'd give him more pain than pleasure otherwise, feeling the heat of his over-sensitized buttocks under my fingers. But after a while, his hand grabbing my hip and pushing me down to him becomes quite clear about what he wants from me.

 

 

Yet I must ask, my mouth kissing his ear, because he is the very breath of me, and despite games and madness, I would rather die than hurt him.

 

His short, breathless answer, tense with impatience, leaves me with no doubt.

 

I angle myself and thrust, feeding on the low cry of delight he lets out.

 

 

 

I wish I could lift him up to reach around and stroke his cock, but the way he moves with me against the bedsheets seems to be enough for him. I like those sounds he makes.

 

I also want more of these.

 

None of us will be long, but I force myself to take time. He is burning and mad and his moves have lost all coherence, but I stay gentle, focusing on one slow rhythm, and my touch on his bruised skin. Between those moans and curses I crave so much, I don't think I see any sign of pain coming back.

 

Good.

 

Soon, his head dart up, he screams my name again, and he is clenching around me and shuddering, and scorching hot, and, oh _**God**_ _, how I love him._

 

I kiss his collarbone, moaning my feelings into it as I come, but I don't think he listens.

 

 

 

 

We lay there for a while, in messy sheets I'll have to change, until he gets up wincing to fetch the old brandy.

 

The sight of his perfect bottom, marked in nasty brushstrokes of red, tears me in two between pride and shame. I cannot hold back my words as he turns to me, handing me a glass.

 

 

-”This wasn't planned” I stammer. “I only meant to buy you dinner.”

 

 

To my surprise, he laughs, and with a pose that would damn a thousand souls, he checks his backside in my wardrobe mirror. His eyes widen at the state of it, and he lets out a long whistle of admiration.

 

I drown my pride, - steadily winning over shame - in brandy before he gets a chance to see it.

 

-”Come one, Julius, don't underestimate yourself”, he cheers while he sits back on the bed, barely hiding another wince. “You did plan to teach me a _lesson_ with that whole gambling business, mh?”

 

 

 

 

Ah, Malcolm. Always so observant regarding others, and oblivious concerning himself.

I lower my eyes and mutter into my glass :

 

-”Indeed I did. If only you could see yourself as I see you, my dear Malcolm, you'd never have proposed this bet.”

 

 

There is something soft in the way he hold my face to lift it up, making me look at him and see the playful glow in his eyes, between clouds of more serious, deeper thoughts.

 

There is something pleading in the way he whispers, half a smile thrown over the boiling pool of his own doubts :

 

-”Well, darling, if you don't see my aching rear as a sign of a lesson learned yet, I remind you that we are still far, far way from the break of dawn.”

 

 

 

 

I smile, maybe a little too wide. I am, after all, _a man of imagination._

 

 

 

 


End file.
